Goodbye Master Stokes Chapter 4 An Unwritten Book
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Goodbye Master Stokes - Chapter 5: The Great Divide free porn video
CHAPTER 5: THE GREAT DIVIDE
This chapter contains lyrics from the song 'Back Street Luv', recorded by
Curved Air and written by Darryl Way, Sonia Kristina Linwood and Ian Eyre.
The room was still in almost total darkness, but the luminous material
covering the hands of the alarm clock confirmed that Sunday November 28th
had arrived.
The date that for the last week and a half had been stamped, chiselled and
seared into the surface of every brain cell I possessed was no longer in
the future.
It was today. It was now.
I didn't get up immediately. Although less than a month would have gone by
before I'd be sleeping in this bed again, I was unable to dismiss an
irrational fear that during my absence it might change beyond recognition,
that I'd return to find its shifts and creaks as strange as those I was to
encounter tonight.
The feeling soon disappeared. I threw back the covers, drew up my knees
and leapt into that weird and wonderful world called the rest of my life.
I ran myself a bath - this was a special day, after all - and sank so
deeply into the foamy water that it was lapping at my chin. The currents I
created by swishing my hands to and fro stimulated the two small but
clearly visible mounds swelling from my chest into behaving like fully
developed breasts, encumberances I didn't really want but knew I had to be
ready to live with. The various pills and potions I'd been taking had
brought about other, more pronounced changes: my hair was thicker, shinier
and slightly darker; my arms had grown plumper, my hips were wider and my
thighs distinctly chunkier; from my crotch protruded only a sliver of
flesh, no longer than a fingernail, which seemed each morning to shrink
further into the safety of the slit behind it.
Yet I had no underlying awareness of being female. If I looked like a
girl, even from a distance - Lisa had taken dozens of photographs of me in
West Park, down by the harbour and on Staincliffe beach, as if I was
emigrating to New Zealand rather than moving a mere sixty miles along the
coast - on the inside I was the same person I'd always been. I continued
to study the league tables, I wanted a moped more than ever, and my
interest in rock music was undiminshed. Good luck to the member of staff
at Lowdales Hall who tried to browbeat me into forsaking Jethro Tull for T
Rex or the Bay City Rollers!
Back in my room I dressed quickly, having decided on my outfit days ago.
The impression I wanted to give my new school was of someone who'd come to
terms with being a girl but saw no need to make a big deal of it. To that
end I'd settled on the jumper I bought the first time I went shopping with
Lisa, a pair of dark brown cords, grey ankle socks and black platform
shoes. The prospectus had stressed that pupils would not be required to
wear a uniform, stipulating only that denim was prohibited during normal
school hours, so it appeared that I'd be free to cultivate whatever image
I liked.
I took more time over my hair, putting in the dead-centre parting I'd
preferred ever since it first crept over my ears in the summer of '69 and
combing it forward in an attempt to imitate the windswept, faintly
dishevelled look Sonia Kristina favoured.
"Will she make it? Can she take it?" I sang softly to myself.
Of course she could. She'd got this far, hadn't she?
I went into the spare bedroom and spent a few moments in front of the
mirror examining my profile from different angles, taking a particular
pleasure in the way my cords hugged the undeniably womanly curves between
my waist and the tops of my thighs. I had a bum too, one that according to
Lisa moved in the most delectable fashion when I walked. She'd shied away
from pointing out that if she found it appealing then so might boys; the
looks I was getting used to receiving from them made that observation
unnecessary.
Before going downstairs I conducted one final sweep to ensure that I
hadn't left anything behind, then lifted up the small red suitcase which
was the only luggage I'd be taking with me - a trunk containing the bulk
of my belongings had been despatched on Thursday - and took my latest
acquisition, a belted mustard skiing jacket, from its peg. It was amazing
how widely a father's wallet could be persuaded to open once he's read a
solicitor's lteer fromising him several thousand pounds in compensation
and a similar sum to be held in trust until his child reaches the age of
majority.
The same wallet had also injected thirty quid into my Post Office savings
account, which now stood at...erm, thirty quid. Apart from the loose change
in my back pocket it was all the money I had. I wasn't counting aunt
Rachel's fiver; that was staying in the tobacco tin where I'd stashed it
more than a month ago. It had been spoken for ever since Lisa said how
much she liked Rod Stewart's Every Picture Tells A Story.
"Don't forget to write," she'd reminded me yesterday evening. "I want to
know every little detail."
Then she'd squeezed my hand and ruffled my hair. For a few moments I'd
been staring at the world from outer space.
If only she hadn't pulled away so abruptly when I went to hug her.
Where's your smile today? Did she let you down?
Try to see she didn't mean to make you feel so sad.
I closed the door and walked quickly down to the front room. It was
beginning to get lighter outside, but the curtains would remain drawn
until next Saturday, when mum and dad returned from grandpa's funeral.
As I deposited my case on the floor and draped my jacket over the arm of
the sofa I tried hard to ignore the irksome suspicion that Lisa Middleton
- like my grandfather, like Plug and Gash, like Skelty Boulton's Bible
readings and Rafferty's weaselly face - was already part of my past.
*
For a town that could claim with some justification to be one of the
birthplaces of the railways, Stockton-on-Tees didn't have a particularly
impressive station. The arched roof was in a sorry state of repair, with
many of its glass panels missing; the bays at both ends of the two main
platforms were choked with weeds; the buffet had served its last customers
when Harold Wilson was in power, the Beatles were still together and the
till was full of threepenny bits, sixpences and ten-shilling notes. This
morning, however, a healthy sprinkling of would-be travellers had
congregated here due to the Sunday engineering works that had diverted the
express trains from their usual route. I'd be catching the next one that
came through; they all called at York, where I had to change for the
fifty-five minute run to Scarborough.
"I still say you should've let your father drive you down," said mum. "It
would've been just as quick."
"The lad's made his decision," dad put in before I could reply.
I started to speak, then thought better of it. The black dress mum was
wearing beneath her overcoat reminded me that the last thing she needed at
this difficult time was for people to sound as if they were ganging up on
her.
She fussed with the flap of my jacket. When she opened her handbag I
feared there might be a serious possibility of her taking a handkerchief
from it, moistening it with her tongue and using it to wipe my face.
Instead she handed me a small bag of boiled sweets.
"Mmm, barley sugars," I remarked without a trace of irony.
"Save some for Thursday," she advised me. "It's a long way down to
Reading. You've got your ticket safe, haven't you?"
"The Poole train, remember," said dad.
"I know," I muttered, trying hard to disguise my irritation at his having
insisted I travel cross-country rather than via London. Would he have done
that if I'd been male?
The station bell rang, heralding the imminent arrival of the service to
Kings Cross. Mum frowned, as if it signalled the approach of a thief come
to steal from her nearly three years of active parenthood.
"Well, this is it," she said. "Don't forget to ring when you get there.
Are you sure you don't want any more change?"
"I've got plenty," I assured her.
"And don't go wandering off exploring if Miss Corrigan is a minute or two
late picking you up. I know what you're like."
"I won't."
By now all eyes were turned to the right, and the broad curve that brought
the line into the station. Soon the bottle green diesel locomotive
appeared at the top, provoking a flurry of activity around us.
Dad stepped forward and held out his hand.
"Good luck, son," he said as we shook.
I didn't correct him. The expression he wore told me he was starting to
appreciate how much this moment meant to me.
The engine roared past. We gravitated towards the northern end of the
platform, where the rearmost carriages would stop and I'd have a better
chance of finding a seat.
Dad opened the door while mum inclined her head so I could give her a peck
on the cheek. This was as demonstrative a display of affection as we'd
ever shared.
"See you on Thursday, then," I said as I climbed aboard.
"Take care," mum called back.
"Look after yourself," cried dad.
Or that was what I've always assumed they said. I wasn't really listening.
I remember waving to my parents as the train slid forward. I remember
laying my case flat on the table, unfastening it and taking out the latest
edition of Sounds. I remember looking up when we rattled over the Tees
viaduct at Yarm, and again when we joined the main line at Northallerton.
I remember the elderly couple sitting across the aisle who didn't know
quite what to make of me.
But most of all I remember the words the guard spoke to me less than two
minutes after we left Stockton.
"Ticket please, miss."
That was when I was certain my journey was really underway.
*
York station was busy, even at half-past eleven on a Sunday morning.
Everywhere I looked people were on the move, hurrying across the
footbridges or wheeling trolleys full of cases along the platforms in
search of those elusive few square feet of private space. The air beneath
the four curving spans of glass and wrought iron buzzed with the sounds of
whistles being blown, doors being slammed shut and engines idling before
thundering into action. Above them the echoing tannoy announced the
departures of trains to destinations that to me were no more than points
on a map or places that merited a weekly mention when the football results
were being read out: Inverness, Aberdeen, Derby, Cheltenham, Plymouth,
Huddersfield...
And Scarborough!
11.43 from platform 6, calling at Malton and Seamer, just as the booking
clerk at Stockton had promised.
I joined the throng making their way towards the bridge, each step taking
me closer to the new world that would soon be opening up for me. I felt a
sense of independence that was quite dazzling; the credit for whatever
success I achieved in the weeks and months to come would be mine and mine
alone.
For the first ten miles or so of this second and final leg there was
little of interest to be seen, just flat, bare fields, lonely farmhouses
and stands of leafless trees. Superimposed upon them were the images that
took shape before my eyes - of buildings, of classrooms, of dining halls,
of playing fields, of the dormitory I'd be sharing. But I dismissed them
as illusions, extrapolated from a few glossy photographs in a sixteen-page
prospectus. Whatever the future had in store for me, it was unlikely to
resemble my expectations. The other pupils were the unknown factor, just
as they'd been at Newburn Grammar School. Pansy's would be the one
familiar face set against the scores of others soon to come crashing into
my life.
Towards this upheaval I sped, north and east, the Yorkshire coast coming
closer with every bridge, gate and bush that flashed past. I thought about
Clare Corrigan, and whether we'd get on. I thought about the Sunday lunch
my mother would be preparing for two instead of three. I thought about
Lisa, wondering if she was thinking about me.
It started with a station on the edge of an industrial estate that
materialised out of nowhere. Then there were steep slopes on either side
of the line, the hill to the right topped with a memorial of some kind.
Streets, warehouses, factories, depots and gasworks closed in. A long,
open platform, the type built for excursion trains in a bygone era, slid
by the left-hand window.
The clock tower. The tall buildings with their opulent frontages. The wide
boulevard leading to the shopping centre, its central reservation planted
with roses. This was Scarborough, jewel in the crown of Yorkshire seaside
resorts, and for the next two and a half years I could call it my home!
Suddenly I saw Newburn for what it was - a dull, neglected backwater, a
grimy cage whose bars were those of limited opportunities and a tendency
to be content with second best. If it had taken the most bizarre of
circumstances to set me free, I now believed that learning to be female
was no exorbitant price to pay for my liberty.
This optimism was to be shattered within seconds by the yellow Ford Capri
that drove up to the station entrance. The woman at the wheel was an
attractive brunette, her hair cut in a medium-length bob. I estimated to
be in her early thirties, despite the fact that her embroidered cream
blouse and pleated dark brown skirt were a little prudish for someone
clearly several years away from surrendering to the onset of middle age.
But it was her companion, a young, vivacious blonde with short, heavily
lacquered curls, wearing a turquoise cardigan over a flowery dress, whose
painted nails beckoned me closer. And I hadn't covered half the distance
before I realised that the grin forming on those scarlet lips belonged to
Pansy Porter.
I lowered my case to the ground. Pansy had been at Lowdales for what, a
fortnight? Did all the pupils look like this? Would they demand that I
adopt the same image?
Pansy wound down the window.
"Well, are you just going to stand there staring?" she said.
"You...you're a..." I spluttered.
"I'm a Kitten, dear. Now get in before the pigeons all assume you're a
statue and start building nests behind your ears."
And that was how she introduced me to one side of the Great Divide at
Lowdales Hall.
*
It took less than a quarter of an hour to reach the school. Clare and
Paula - I couldn't think of her as Pansy any more, not in that get-up -
gave me a running commentary so I didn't lose my bearings entirely. From
the station we travelled west to the ring road, which took us to the
former village of Scalby, now the northernmost suburb of the town. Turning
left at what on a weekday would have been a busy crossroads, we headed
along a winding lane that quickly ascended a sharp incline overhung with
trees and emerged onto a flat stretch before diving just as precipitously
into a small but deep valley carved by a bubbling stream flowing through
more dense woodland. Lowdales Hall was situated on the southern side of
the road, about three hundred yards from where it swung south towards the
village of Eversdale.
"Calling it a village is a bit of an exaggeration," said Clare as she
guided the Capri down the short track to the car park in front of what to
my eyes seemed a vast country house. "There's a pub, which is strictly out
of bounds by the way, and a shop which opens when it likes. If you need to
buy more than crisps and fizzy drinks you have to wait until Saturdays,
when we run mini-buses to Scarborough."
"Unless you're pals with one of the girls who's old enough to drive,"
added Paula.
"And are you?" I asked.
"I'm working on it."
The car crunched to a halt. I opened the door and breathed in air that
felt fresh and invigorating. The woods still rose highly in every
direction, lending the surroundings a cosy seclusion matched only by the
eerie silence.
"You're used to the constant hum of background traffic," explained Clare,
anticipating my question. "When you live in a town your brain filters it
out. You have to come to a place like this to experience the difference."
Paula didn't accompany us inside, but made for the path that took her to a
long, low building that appeared to form part of a separate complex.
"What was all that about her being a Kitten?" I wanted Clare to tell me.
"It's our very own sorority."
"Your what...?"
"A sisterhood, based on the ones you often find in American colleges."
"But Paula's only been here a couple of weeks. How did she persuade them
to let her join in such a short time?"
"She didn't have to. The Kittens are keen to recruit younger pupils. A
large proportion of them are in their final year, so they're always on the
lookout for anyone who's adjusted well enough to agree to have her hair
done and conform to their dress code."
"That rules me out, then," I laughed.
"Don't be too sure, Peter. She's far too diplomatic to have said so to
your face, but from what she's told me about you I'm in no doubt that
Paula considers you a prime target."
"She can take a running jump," I growled to myself as we came to the steps
going up to the main entrance.
Clare didn't allow me long to take in the paintings of idyllic rural
scenes, the elaborate chandeliers, the beautifully upholstered chairs
arranged around the coffee table in the alcove beside the secretary's
office, or the lavish carpet covering the staircase at the far end of the
hall. Instead she ushered me through a series of corridors to a more
prosaic flight that ended on a landing flanked by rooms from which
emanated the sounds of raucous but adrogynous laughter mingled with the
less ambivalent tones of a Richie Blackmore guitar solo.
"You shouldn't have any problems with Chris," she said. "She has her
moments, but most people here do."
"She's not a Kitten, is she?"
"She wasn't the last time I saw her."
Clare knocked softly on the door bearing the number 23. It was answered by
a plumpish figure with long, untidy chestnut hair, wearing scruffy jeans
and a loose rugby shirt that couldn't disguise the extent of her
substantial bosom.
"Peace has ended, has it?" she sighed, looking me up and down.
"Take no notice," said Clare. "She's just grumpy because her team lost
yesterday."
"Lost? We were bloody annihilated. The sooner they get rid of that idiot
Robson the better."
"You're an Ipswich fan?" I smiled. "You should try supporting Newburn
Town."
Clare glanced at her watch.
"Okay, you've got half an hour before they serve lunch. After that I'll
come down and give you the grand tour. Oh, and Chris, since the company's
gone to all the expense of installing en suite facilities may I suggest
you make more regular use of them?"
With that she left us to it.
"A bit of a bugger, this, isn't it?" said Chris.
"We'll survive."
"No thanks to the likes of her. All she cares about is bloody exam
results."
"She seems quite nice..."
"We're here to study and get decent grades. Nothing else matters. If we
fail, the contract goes to some other school."
"What about adjusting?" I asked. "Don't they have classes for that?"
"You're joking. There's a shrink you can go and see if you wake up wanting
to do yourself in, but she's only there because they're covering their
backsides. Most of us don't, so we muddle along as best we can. That's how
all this Toms and Kittens business started."
"Toms?"
"It's short for tomboys." She pushed her hair back from her forehead.
"Look, I'll fill you in while you're unpacking. I'm Chris, by the way.
Christopher Nayland as was, not sure who I'll be once I'm finished with
this place. And you are...?"
"Carolyn," I said.
The instant those three syllables issued from my lips I knew I'd crossed
the biggest boundary of all. I hadn't meant to disown Peter quite so early
in my career at Lowdales, but the deed was done.
Peter Stokes was history.
Carolyn Stokes had her whole life in front of her.
Yer look different somehow. Yer voice 'as changed an' all.
And she'd never lie about her new identity again.
END NOTES:
This is as far as the story goes, for the time being at any rate. I'd like
to thank everyone who reviewed it - some of the comments left me
breathless - and once again express a deep degree of gratitude to Kelly
Ann Rogers, without whom the tale would have stalled after Chapter 2.
Next up?
Anybody's guess.
Lauryn
- 12.10.2022
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